“Yes,” said the Pessimist, “and before now we’ve had ’em out for three hundred and fifty.” “But,” said the Humourist, “I hadn’t developed my head-ball then.” The Humourist would find it as difficult to exist without his “head-ball,” as Attewell without his gentle maiden. “Well, I suppose it all depends upon the weather,” said the Worry, with his usual inconsequence. “How’s the glass?” “Quite well, thank you,” said the Humourist, brandishing a huge whisky and Apollinaris. “Going down,” said the Treasurer, with great gloominess. The Treasurer had been elected to his dignity because it was feared that he was Scotch on his mother’s side. Here the Captain came into the conversation. He took his corn-cob slowly from his mouth, pressed the tobacco down with that air of simple majesty that is the hall-mark of the great, and then began to smoke again in a very solemn manner. This, for the Captain, was a speech. And as it is only the fool who can speak without giving himself away, this was as it should be. His words were fit though few. Hence the tradition, that though he didn’t say much his ideas were very beautiful. The Secretary regularly sat in a listening attitude behind his chair, so that if by any chance the great man did commit an utterance, he could jot it down upon his cuff. And it was an open secret that every time the Secretary changed his shirt he entered the Captain’s requests for a milk and soda or a pipe-light in the archives of the Club. The Captain was the gentlest of men. There was a suavity in his coffee-coloured face and his pale blue eye that grew positively weird in one who was good for another fifty every time he had the screen moved. Though he had developed a peculiar habit of playing for the Gentlemen at Lord’s, he had a charity that covered a multitude of umpires, and when l.b.w. did not attempt to demonstrate to the pavilion by the laws of Sir Isaac Newton that the ball had not pitched straight by the vulgarest fraction of an inch. His mien had the wholly classic calm of those who have their biographies in Wisden. His language in its robustest passages was as fragile as Mrs. Meynell’s prose. If a small boy danced behind the bowler’s arm, it was claimed for the Captain that he actually employed “please” and “thank you.”[A] Even in the throes of a run out his talk retained its purity to a remarkable degree. His strongest expletive was a pained expression. His beverage seldom rose beyond a milk and soda. Life with him was a very chaste affair.